5 Things That Never Happened to Cpt Jack Sparrow
by BethCG
Summary: Another time, another place...five different ways it could have been.


TITLE: Five Things That Never Happened to Captain Jack Sparrow  
AUTHOR: Beth/CG  
RATING: PG  
FANDOM: Pirates of the Caribbean  
SUMMARY: Another time, another place...five different ways it could have been.  
SPOILERS: Minor ones for the deleted scenes on the DVD.  
ARCHIVE: Ask and ye shall receive.  
NOTES: Written for the multi-fandom "Five Things that Never Happened" challenge. The premise: to write five short AUs about one character (or more) and string them together in a single story. Many, many thanks to Circe and Nina for the awesome beta. As always, constructive criticism is a girl's best friend.  
DISCLAIMER: The Mouse owns all. I'm just raiding, pillaging, plundering, and otherwise pilfering my weaselly black guts out (and making a complete mess of their world in the process). Don't sue me.  
DATE COMPLETED: 12-21-03

  


  


**[#one: ley lines]**

One day, Jonathan Richard Sparrow swears, he will be the best mapmaker in all of England.

He's a day past fourteen and six weeks into his apprenticeship under Edward Stone, Cartographer. In those forty-two days, his narrow life has opened before his eyes, spreading out in fine lines of ink to the edges of the known world and beyond. He's learned about latitude and precision, how to mark mountains and valleys in quick strokes; some nights, he's even studied the _Atlas Maior_ itself, heart trembling as he traces thin fingers over the calligraphy.

Stone isn't a forgiving man, though, and Jonathan isn't as quick a study as he should be - his legs seem to tangle together whenever he has a glass inkwell in hand, and more than once his restless fingers have knocked a lit candle onto a finished project. It's become an ongoing joke, though it's not particularly funny: if another apprentice makes a mistake, they're scolded for being "daft like Jack."

(Every time Jonathan hears that, his mouth twists. He hates being called "Jack.")

It's while he's sweeping the back room one day, having been regulated to simple cleaning duty, that he first hears about the Isla de Muerta. One of the other apprentices is relaying the story in a hushed voice, delighting in hearsay and legend: _didja know there's an island out west that no one can find 'less they's already gots the coordinates? Heard it from a man that came in today._

_I don't believe you. He's a dirty liar and so's you, Martin._

_No I ain't! He was tellin' the truth, he was, and so'm I!_

Without realizing it, Jonathan slows his sweeping, then stops entirely, leaning on the broom as he quietly eavesdrops on the conversation. What a boon it would be, he thinks, to have such an island mapped! Stone would be even more famous than Blaeu if he could claim that sort of success. And if Jonathan were the one to tell him about it....Grinning, he finishes his task and runs to find his master.

He's rewarded for his troubles with a stinging backhand across the face. _Don't be wastin' my time with that nonsense, boy! The Isla de Muerta's nothin' but a myth! If ye had half a bit o' common sense in that empty head o' yours, ye'd've figured that out yerself!_

Fifteen years later, after Stone has died and Jonathan succeeded him in the business, a man with a livid "P" burned on his arm forgets his compass in the shop. Upon discovering it, Jonathan cautiously opens the case and finds a sliver of paper wrapped around the needle (which has settled firmly on south-southeast). He unrolls it and reads what's written there. Then, in a sudden flurry of loose-limbed movement, he yanks a bundle of maps off the shelf and sifts through them to find one labeled "Islands of the Caribbean." He clears the desk and spreads out the chart; brow creasing in puzzlement, he taps the empty expanse of water where the coordinates point.

_Just a myth?_ the voice of his fourteen-year-old self whispers.

_Yes,_ another voice counters, much more forcefully. "If you had half a bit of common sense in that empty head of yours...." You should know better by now, Sparrow.

With a sigh that speaks of lost dreams, he tosses the compass in the fire and re-rolls the map. More customers will be arriving soon.

* * *

**[#two: trickery]**

He keeps telling himself that it's wrong to strike a lady. It's the only thing stopping him from doing just that as he stands on the sun-beaten dock, seething, watching Anamaria twirl his hat between her hands. All right, so Anamaria falls under the loosest definition of "lady" in existence, but the fact remains....

"You stole my bloody boat," he snaps, fists clenched, sounding far too much like a petulant child for his own comfort.

Anamaria gives a deceptively sweet smile - and not only that, actually has the audacity to tap his chest with the edge of his own hat. "'Borrowed,' Jack, 'borrowed.' Not 'stole.'"

Jack closes his eyes and massages the bridge of his nose with both hands. When he speaks, it's with the extreme restraint of a man on the verge of taking a cutlass to every throat within a five-meter radius. "No, see, 'borrowed' implies that you're going to return it someday. Which you _didn't_, and bleedin' well _can't_ now that it's resting at the bottom of Port Royal Harbor!" He snatches his hat back and jams it on his head, probably with more force than is strictly necessary.

Their exchange is attracting the attention of the other Tortugans. He can feel their wary eyes on him, but glancing their way would mean he'd have to stop glowering at Anamaria, so he folds his bare arms and ignores them. Anamaria, for her part, just raises two inviting eyebrows and rests one hand on her hip.

_Why_ must she be so bloody infuriating? He's only met this woman twice now, and it's already two times too many. When she hailed him from the dock and distracted him with bright eyes and shy smiles, asking if the strong, handsome sailor could help a poor lady find the blacksmith's, he didn't think much of it. Wasn't too long before he made the mistake of turning his back, though, and once he did, there went his _Neptune's Son_. It would've been an admirable bit of sleight-of-hand if it hadn't been happening to _him_.

"I want compensation," he says in clipped tones; he's still annoyed, but at least he's controlling himself. "A new boat, or enough gold to commission one. Savvy?"

Just when he thought those eyebrows couldn't ascend any farther.... "And if I refuse?" Waving a dark, calloused hand at the rest of the sailors, she adds, "You are not the only able-bodied man here, Jack. I have nothing to lose by not taking you aboard."

Which is, he hates to admit, probably true. The knowledge makes his lips quirk into a smile that may or may not bear more resemblance to a snarl. So much for control. "If you're going to the Isla de Muerta," he hisses, "you'll need every able-bodied man you can get, love."

A shocked murmur sweeps over the crowd like the incoming tide. He snaps his head around, eyeing the rest of the men before glancing back at Anamaria from the corner of his eyes. She looks off-balance, off-guard, and he feels a quick surge of pride as he understands what he's done. Never mind that it wasn't intentional; he still has the chance to do his own bit of swindling, it seems, outwit this damned temptress once and for all. The not-smile turns into something genuine. "You didn't tell them? Well, well...that's interesting."

"I didn't tell you, either!" she growls, regaining her footing in familiar anger.

"True enough." Unfolding his arms with a smooth, languid shrug, he leans close and whispers, "But, see, you weren't the only one in that pub last night. And one can hear quite a bit, really, when no one thinks he's payin' attention." He chuckles and savors the stunned, slackened look on her face.

Alongside them, the other men are scowling openly; there are dark, rapid mutterings about fool's errands and the whims of a madwoman, mutterings that escalate into a loud rumble of angry shouts and catcalls. Anamaria forcibly gathers herself, pivots away from Jack, and waves her arms, raising her voice against the others. "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" The volume barely dips, but it's just enough for her to continue, "I said I would reward you handsomely for your service, and I will keep that promise! There is plenty to be found on the Isla de Muerta - "

"Aye, all of it tainted with bad luck!" one voice shouts, and the others chorus in agreement.

"Not all of it," she says with a tinge of desperation. "The tales tell of the Aztec treasure, aye, but what of the rest? Pirates have used it as a cache for years! You'll find piles of gold there - _mountains_ of it - all of it free of curses or ill luck!"

They're starting to quiet down now as their greed coming to the fore. Seeing she's beginning to regain her rapt audience, Anamaria quickly adds, "It will all be yours, and I promise you more, if you join my crew. You'll be rich men, the lot of you. What say you?"

When she's greeted with a tumult of "AYE!"s, only Jack can see the way her shoulders sag, how her eyes flutter shut for a brief instant of unadulterated relief. As the men stride to their boat, she swings around to face him once more, jaw clenched. "Once we're aboard, you and I shall discuss this, Sparrow."

He only laughs in reply.

* * *

**[#three: betrayers and mutineers]**

Jack's unwritten contract is that he won't talk for less than three drinks. _Good_ drinks, mind; he won't settle for the watered-down piss the Faithful Bride tries to pass off as ale. If the people that come to him don't know that, well, then they aren't worth doing business with anyway.

James Norrington knows it well, though, and now that he's given the bartender nine shillings, he's giving Jack an impatient look as he drums his fingers against the table. Jack examines the row of glasses between them, swipes a finger over the rim of one, licks away the drop of rum as he matches the commodore look for look.

"Well?" Norrington finally asks.

"Well what?" He tilts his head and offers a coy smirk. Norrington's thin mouth becomes even thinner then, green eyes flashing annoyance. No sense of humor tonight, it seems. With an exaggerated sigh, Jack leans back in his chair and kicks his feet onto the table, nearly sending one of the glasses crashing to the floor in the process.

"Need I remind you, Sparrow, of our arrangement?" Norrington's voice is just as cold as the glare.

"Oh, no reminder necessary, Commodore," he says, swinging his arms wide; even while seated, the movement undulates down his body in a smooth, serpentine wave. With a grin, "One can't deny a man his bit of fun, though, eh?"

Perfectly deadpan: "Indeed."

"Wonderful." Jack twirls a hand around to inspect the nails and continues, "So, how can I be of service to the fine men of the Royal Navy?" No use bandying words, after all, not after payment's been received.

Norrington leans closer and folds his hands on the scorched tabletop. "The _Black Pearl_. What do you know of her?"

He's sure Norrington notices the way his back suddenly stiffens, how his weaving fingers come to a dead stop, but Jack acts as if he's done nothing out of the ordinary. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward him and lets his arm drop. "Ah," he says. "Yes. Quite a bit, really. But the question should be, dear Commodore," here he swings his legs off the table and leans in to meet him, their faces inches apart, "what do _you_ know of her?"

"Sparrow...."

"No use in tellin' what's already known, see."

He's well aware, with a desperate sort of amusement, that it's taking the commodore all his self-control not to add a third bullet hole to Jack's chest. Still, he gets his answer. "Only the usual nonsense you hear in these sort of establishments. Myths, tales. It's all about as useful as wet powder to a gunner." He lowers his voice. "What's a great deal more useful, however, is the knowledge that she used to be your ship."

Well, now. Of all the things he'd never expected to hear....Jack swallows, regards Norrington for a long moment, then falls back into his seat and gropes for an empty glass. Maybe if he stares into it long enough, he'll will some more rum into its depths. "Aye, that she was."

"And?"

"What more d'you want me to say, Commodore?" Perhaps there's a touch of bitterness there - perhaps more than a touch. "I lost her, if that's what you mean."

"It's not. I want specifics. Size, guns, sails, speed, maximum number of souls aboard?"

One eyebrow arches. "From what the tales tell, there _are_ no souls aboard."

"_Sparrow._"

"Aye, I know." He releases the glass as suddenly as he seized it, shoving it across the table. Quick reflexes on Norrington's part save it from sliding right off the edge; there's a satisfying smack when it hits his waiting palm. Jack hopes, darkly, that it hurts, even just a little. "I suspect you'll be using this information to better set an attack, eh?" he adds at Norrington's continued glower. "Sink the _Pearl_? Get rid of the last real pirate threat in the Caribbean?" He forces a smile and silently congratulates himself for keeping the tone so offhand.

"What I do with the information," he says, each word measured and level as he shoves the mug back in Jack's direction, "is none of your business."

Jack's smile broadens to a smirk as he taps the careening glass, letting it come to a spinning, ringing rest alongside the others. "Of course, of course. Forgive me." And then the smirk stops, and he's silent for a long moment as he curls his fingers, weighing pride against profit. He's made a business of playing the mutineer, true enough: betraying his own kind to better stay a step ahead of the hangman. It's the only way he's managed to survive so long; Norrington would hang him on the spot otherwise. Lord knows he's been itching to do so ever since Jack dropped anchor in Port Royal two years ago.

Betraying one's love, though...that's an entirely different matter. Neither fair nor right, but he has no choice. Not really. This moment is only opportune for a profit, or perhaps revenge on Barbossa and the rest. Nothing more. His _Pearl_'s lost for good.

Maybe, though, she'll forgive him if he's too deep in his cups to know what he's doing.

"Buy me another," he says, indicating the glasses with a resigned sigh, "and we'll talk."

He's already bound for Hell. Hopefully, falling a little farther won't hurt.

* * *

**[#four: the quality of mercy]**

The archaeologists aren't expecting to find anything beyond the seventeenth-century rum cache on this island. That's all right, though; it's still a marvelous discovery. A steady stream of antique bottles, some still half-full or more with viable alcohol, clink gently as they're lifted from the hidden chamber. It's amazing that the cache wasn't destroyed when the trapdoor caved in, they murmur, or during the hurricanes that've surely swept through over the years. It's a stroke of the best fortune imaginable.

Then there's a sudden shout from a member of the team, and the others come running. Under the trees, folded up and mostly buried under the white sand, is a skeleton. Not just any skeleton: a human skeleton.

It takes five minutes to set up a makeshift dig, and within an hour the bones are fully unearthed. Tiny scraps of colorful cloth still cling to them in spots. Further examination of the site leads to even more exciting finds: several more bottles, a cracked leather tricorn, a rusted flintlock.

When the original discoverer picks up the yellowed skull, she also finds a single hole in the parietal bone.

* * *

**[#five: landlocked]**

The first hundred years aren't so bad. Depressing, to be certain, what with hearing of the _Pearl_'s demise off the coast of Florida in 1742 and witnessing the quick disintegration of what was once the greatest profession in the Spanish Main. But he survives. It's what he does best, and it isn't as if he has much choice in the matter anymore.

He spends some time aboard a naval warship, the irony weighing on his shoulders the entire time. When he grows sick of that, he tries his hand as a whaler, which ends up being no more pleasant or satisfying. Neither crew can abide his quirks: the way he never goes above decks during the night, how he always fingers that blasted gold coin when he's alone. He becomes their Jonah and bears the brunt of their grief. At least he's out on the open water, though; at least he has some measure of freedom.

Until the bloody Industrial Revolution arrives, anyway. Within decades he finds himself tossed ashore like so much scraggled flotsam, watching helplessly as all but a handful of tall ships are cut and burned. The ugly, lumbering steamships that replace them turn his stomach, and the fact that the men who pilot them call themselves "sailors" when they do nothing more than twist a knob and pull a lever - it's a pathetic sight. He wants nothing to do with it, or them.

So, after nearly two centuries on the water, he puts his feet to dry land and doesn't look back.

But a hundred and fifty years after that, when his sea legs have shriveled up and he no longer notices his parched throat or the constant hunger, he finds himself squatting on the end of a dock somewhere in Baltimore, watching the waves lap the wood beneath him. A plastic bottle knocks against one of the supports in a steady rhythm. It's a new moon, but he still hears his bones creak as he moves; it reminds him, painfully, of the swaying lullaby his _Pearl_ used to sing to him (God rest her soul). Whoever said "time heals all wounds" was a right daft bastard.

He digs around in the pocket of his jeans, finds an old knife corroded by age, hesitates a moment as he feels the embossed coin resting next to it. Perhaps it's time to go back to the Isla de Muerta - _past_ time, his body tells him - but immortality becomes force of habit after a while, and the once-inevitable stop at the end of life isn't even imaginable now.

Even so, he thinks, some last respects must be paid.

There are twenty-three dreadlocks on his head, plus six braids and a handful of loose hair. It takes a while to cut them all, but one doesn't reach the age of three hundred and forty-four without learning the merits of patience. One dreadlock he coils and shoves in his pocket. The remaining twenty-two he rolls between his palms as he studies the dark, oily water.

"Never gonna be free of you, am I, love?" he asks quietly. His head feels unnaturally light, and when he shakes it, he's surprised by how quickly it moves from side to side. "Thought I would be after all this time, but I s'pose not." Sighing, he weighs the severed locks in his open palm for a moment. "You shoulda had my bones long ago, but I can't give 'em to you. Not anymore. 'S far too late for that."

He lowers his head, then, after considering the locks briefly, turns his hand over and lets them fall. They bob like dead things before finally sinking under the current.

"So you can have those instead. Least I can do after all you did for me."

When the rippling water grows still for a moment, he takes it as a sign that he's given a suitable offering. Pocketing the knife with a rueful smile, he gets up and retraces his steps down the pier; it will do no good to be caught here when dawn comes.

_The Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow._ It did have a ring, once.

  


_the end_


End file.
